The better for him, the worse for Severus Snape
by Possum132
Summary: Harry Potter and Severus Snape are back in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place, reprising the duel in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. Mrs Black raves and mutters in the background. Follow up to Power the Dark Lord knows not.
1. Chapter 1: Harry Potter

**So much the better for him, so much the worse for Severus Snape**

_To some extent this fic is a clothes horse for some ideas about how the Horcruxes might pan out, but it also brings Harry and Snape a little closer towards détente. It's Harry's turn to look into the void and feel some pain – and to see the kind of stuff that Snape is made of. Whatever else Snape may be, he's no coward. _

_This may not make much sense unless you've read the seven part series._

**Chapter 1: Harry Potter**

He'd stayed calm while Snape told him the truth of what had happened on top of the Astronomy Tower and why Dumbledore had trusted Snape so completely, but by the time he'd said goodbye to Mad-Eye Moody, walked out of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, and Apparated home to Privet Drive the shock had hit him with all the force of a stampeding troll. He'd been so churned up, so mixed up inside - because if Snape is still Dumbledore's man through and through, then his world has turned upside down - that he'd had to put his arms around Hedwig and bury his face in her soft feathers, because she at least is beautiful and uncomplicated and unequivocally good. And although normally Hedwig wasn't keen on being petted and cuddled, she'd been very gracious about being hugged so tightly, and having her feathers messed up and sniffled into.

Then he'd put his wand and the Muggle gun that Snape had given him on the bedside table and thrown himself on his bed, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts because thank god it was shaping up to be a decent sort of a summer and Dementors don't like the heat - and he'd just lain there and brooded, while Hedwig perched at the foot of the bed and hooted softly, comfortingly to him.

He'd thought, this is just like a Muggle murder-mystery, because once you know whodunit, it's just so bleeding obvious, there's a clue on practically every page. Once you know how far the Unbreakable Vow went – that Snape was bound not just to help Draco and to protect him, but to finish the job if Draco couldn't do it – then all the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle fall into place. And Snape _must_ have told Dumbledore about the Vow straight away, because Dumbledore gave Snape the Defence job, even though he knew the position was cursed, even though Dumbledore had never been able to keep a Defence teacher for more than a year.

He'd had to fight back tears when he remembered what he'd said to Ron at the Arrival Feast, _there's one good thing, Snape'll be gone by the end of the year ... personally I'm going to keep my fingers crossed for another death_ - because he'd got his wish, though not in the way that he'd hoped for. And then the words of the lumpy Death Eater Amycus had come bubbling up into his mind, _we've got a problem, Snape, the boy doesn't seem able_ ... Dumbledore had known what those words meant, he'd known that Snape had the choice to break the Vow and die, or to fulfil it and live. And he'd thought, how could I have ever believed that Dumbledore was pleading for his life - he was pleading with Snape to fulfil the Vow, and to get the Death Eaters off the Tower, to get them away from _me_. Of course Dumbledore would sacrifice himself for me, he did it before, when Umbridge found out about the DA. It's a game of chess, the less valuable piece is sacrificed for the sake of the game – and I've never been much good at chess, I didn't see the move. And Voldemort won't see it either, he thinks there's nothing worse than death, I heard him say so in the Ministry of Magic ...

Remembering what Dumbledore had said to Voldemort in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, _your failure to understand that there are things much worse than death has always been your greatest weakness_, had made him feel a bit sick. He'd thought, poor bloody Snape, he knows very well that there are worse things than death, and he wanted to die on the Astronomy Tower, but Dumbledore wouldn't let him. For my sake, Dumbledore wouldn't let him die, and I know now that's what they were fighting about in the Forbidden Forest. And if Snape hated me before, how much more must he hate me now? But he didn't attack me, not even when I tried to use his own spells against him, he didn't lose control until I challenged him to kill me as he'd killed Dumbledore, until I'd called him a coward. He didn't hurt me until I'd really hurt _him_.

Then he'd remembered what Sirius had said about Umbridge - _the world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters_. And it still hurts to think of Sirius, it still angers him to know that while Snape might have done everything he could to prevent Sirius from going to the Department of Mysteries, he wasn't sorry that he'd failed - no, Snape would have been glad that the mutt was dead, he'd have gloated over it, because Severus Snape isn't a good person, he isn't nice at all, but he isn't a Death Eater, either – well, he is, but not really, not if he's still Dumbledore's man.

And then he'd thought, Merlin knows that Snape is thoroughly nasty, but he's not like Umbridge – with her kittens and her pink parchment and her falsely sweet voice and her Detention Quill – and that horrible, eager, excited look on her face when she was about to _crucio_ me. Umbridge is a sadist, she really gets a kick out of causing pain, but Snape is more like a cornered wild beast, lashing out at everyone he's afraid of, everyone he thinks is trying to hurt him ... and Snape was so awful to me in that first Potions lesson, could he have been afraid of _me? _ I was eleven years old, I didn't know anything about magic or the wizarding world, how could Snape have been afraid of me? But I wasn't just any eleven year old boy - I was the Boy Who Lived, and I was James Potter's son, and he wanted to make sure that he'd have the upper hand, he wanted to make sure I'd never treat him the way that my father treated him, and it all went terribly wrong. If I'd just kept my mouth shut - but I made that stupid remark about how Hermione knew the answers, and people _laughed_, and after that it was war between us.

And there's the other thing, Dumbledore promised me that he was going to tell me everything when Sirius died, but Dumbledore didn't tell me _everything_, he didn't tell me why he trusted Snape - because I was so angry, I was so determined to blame Snape for Sirius' death that if he'd told me, it would just have given me another reason to hate Snape. If I'd thought that the filthy Slytherin had dared to look at my mother, it would have been just another reason to hate him.

And then he'd got off the bed, pulled the handsome, leather-covered book of wizard photographs that Hagrid had presented to him at the end of his first year at Hogwarts out of the wardrobe, where it had languished, untouched, since the summer when that Mad-Eye Moody had shown him the photograph of the original members of the Order of the Phoenix and run through the names of the missing - Marlene McKinnon, Frank and Alice Longbottom, Benjy Fenwick, Edgar Bones, Caradoc Dearborn, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, Dorcas Meadowes, James and Lily Potter ... and Peter Pettigrew - and sat cross-legged on the bed, looking through the photographs.

He'd flicked through the pages of wedding photos and baby photos until he'd come to the graduation photos – photographs of James with the Marauders, James with Lily, Lily with her girlfriends, both of them with their proud parents and professors – until finally he'd found the photograph he'd been looking for, the photograph of his mother with Horace Slughorn. Slughorn is looking expansive and self-satisfied, Lily is smiling, looking incredibly pretty – and why has he never realised before how much Ginny is like her, the same dark red hair and something about the face – and Lily is tugging on someone's arm, someone who's lurking outside the frame, and before the third person even comes into view, he knows who it is, and he thinks, Slughorn must have given Hagrid this photograph of himself with his two most brilliant NEWT students.

The Snape in the photograph is at least a couple of years older than in the memory he'd seen in the Pensieve, and this Snape has changed, grown up a lot. The same oily hair is hanging over Snape's face, but he can already see a good deal of the graceful, dangerous adult he's always known. And when Snape doesn't have a sneer or a snarl or a smirk on his face, he isn't so ugly, no uglier than Viktor Krum, anyway – Krum was just as dark, sallow and hook-nosed, but girls had swarmed around Krum, because he was a Quidditch star.

The Lily in the photograph turns to Slughorn, embraces him, kisses him on the cheek, and then she turns to Snape, reaches up to kiss him, and Snape looks stunned, he's taken by surprise, he turns his head, Lily's lips brush against his for a moment and then Snape flushes with embarrassment and steps away from Lily as if he'd been burned.

He'd closed up the book and he'd thought, when you know whodunit, it's so bleeding obvious, Slughorn said everyone who met my mother liked her - and she was beautiful. Snape must have been so much in love with her, he hung around the Evans house even after my mother started going out with James, hoping and hoping - I bet Snape was the awful boy that Aunt Petunia overheard telling Lily about Dementors - and Snape killed her, he killed my mother the day that he went running to his Dark Lord and told him of the prophecy.

And then he'd felt a sudden surge of anger, both towards Dumbledore and Snape – he'd thought, Dumbledore knew all about this, he must have known how much Snape would hate me – how much he'd hate the very idea of me. How could Dumbledore have let Snape stay at Hogwarts for ten years, wallowing in his misery and his memories, until I showed up? To him, I'm the son of the man he hated, or I'm the son of the woman he loved, or I'm the weapon against Voldemort, I'm never _me_, I'm never Harry. And what did Snape have the nerve to say to me in the Occlumency lessons? He called me _weak_, a fool who wallowed in sad memories and allowed myself to be easily provoked! The miserable sod, who was he talking about - me, or him?

Then he'd had an uncomfortable thought – did Dumbledore _make_ Snape stay at Hogwarts? Did Dumbledore keep Snape because he knew that one day Voldemort would return, because he knew that he'd need Snape again? That he'd need to send Snape out to spy again, to pretend to Voldemort that he'd just been biding his time, waiting for his master to return? And then he'd wondered - why did Snape ever join with Voldemort? Snape was a half-blood, he could never have believed the pure-blood supremacist crap ... what had Voldemort offered him? Money, power, position – a share of the glory?

Thinking about the Occlumency lessons had made him remember the vision of the hook-nosed man shouting at the cowering woman, the woman he now recognised as Eileen Prince – why had she cringed, she was a _witch_, why would Eileen Prince have ever been afraid of a _Muggle?_ And what were they fighting about, was it the little dark-haired boy crying in the corner? Were they fighting about magic? Tom Riddle abandoned his wife when he found out that she was a witch - what had Tobias Snape done? Had it been worse than shouting? Had he beaten Eileen, beaten his son as well? And that thought had been upsetting, because Uncle Vernon has never hit him, Vernon has threatened and shouted and pushed him around, but Vernon has never beaten him ... but if Vernon had beaten him, how would he feel about Muggles? About using Dark magic on Muggles?

His head had started to ache, thinking all these complicated, confusing thoughts - it had been so much simpler only a few hours ago, when Severus Snape was the enemy, the coward and the traitor, and he'd known that he couldn't share this information with anyone, not even with Ron and Hermione.

He'd imagined Ron's reaction if he told him – Ron would make retching noises, and say, that greasy git, and your _mum? _ Urgh, that's _gross_. And Hermione ... if he'd ever told her everything, if he'd told her about what he'd seen in the Pensieve, Hermione might have worked it out for herself because she's good at understanding how messed up feelings can get, how a teenage boy might call a pretty girl a Mudblood even if he likes her, maybe _because_ he likes her. And then he'd thought, maybe Hermione wouldn't have worked it out, because she didn't notice how Draco Malfoy never missed a chance to call her "Mudblood", how Draco stared at her sometimes in the Great Hall at meal times or in Potions class - Hermione never noticed the sneer on Draco's face whenever he looked at Ron, as if he hated Ron even more than he hated me. Or maybe she did notice, but she just didn't say anything ...

And that had been a most unwelcome thought, because he really didn't need yet another reason to feel sorry for Draco, poor bloody Draco who'd wanted to be a Death Eater, just like his dad – right up until the moment when Draco had found out that he didn't have the nerve or the ability for the Killing Curse.

But he'd never told Hermione or Ron about the awful memory he'd seen in the Pensieve, even if he hadn't promised Snape that he'd never tell, he wouldn't have told them. He'd been too ashamed of his father and his godfather - and too afraid of his friends' reactions. Ron would have laughed, thought it was funny at first ... and Hermione would have been shocked and disapproving.

James and Sirius, they'd played tag team on Snape, he didn't have a chance against the pair of them, while Remus pretended to read a book, pretended it wasn't happening – and Pettigrew watched, nearly wetting himself with excitement. He'd remembered the look of avid anticipation on Pettigrew's face, couldn't James see what he was like, what kind of a wretched little worm Pettigrew was, why couldn't James see that Pettigrew was the type to hang around the biggest bully in the playground?

And then he'd had to fight back tears again, thinking of his father and godfather, surely they hadn't been that bad? Hagrid liked them, he wouldn't like anyone who was _cruel_ ... Professor McGonagall thought they were trouble-makers, pranksters, but she still liked them ... and Dumbledore, he told me that I look extraordinarily like James, as if it was a _good_ thing. But why didn't they stop the Marauders tormenting Snape? Why didn't they do something, why didn't they step in and do something? But they didn't know the Marauders were Animagi, they didn't know about the Map, maybe they didn't know about a lot of things - or didn't they care, did they think Snape deserved it, because he was a nasty, ugly, greasy, sneaking Slytherin?

He'd remembered the Floo conversation he'd had with Sirius and Remus, they'd admitted to being arrogant little berks – but then they'd wanted to know if James was playing with the Snitch! And then he'd thought - did my dad get away with being such an idiot at school because he was a Quidditch champion? Wizards are mad about Quidditch, Ludo Bagman would have gone to Azkaban, except he played for England – and Lavender Brown started snogging Ron the day that he saved every goal in the Gryffindor-Slytherin match ...

And Sirius did something _really_ stupid in sixth year, something that might have got Snape killed and Remus handed over to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, but even Remus thought it was just a trick, a schoolboy prank! Did Sirius get away with that because he was handsome and charming and wizarding royalty – Sirius was a Black, even if he hated his family - and Snape was a nobody, a shabby little half-blood? Because even Snape's Head of House, Horace Slughorn, favoured the popular, good-looking boys? And then he'd remembered something that had really made him writhe, he'd remembered what Sirius had said about Barty Crouch, senior - _if you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals_.

He'd been thankful when Dudley tapped, timidly, on the door of his bedroom to tell him that dinner was ready, because he was glad to have something to break the chain of his thoughts – and something's up with the Dursleys. They'd been frightened enough when Dumbledore visited the house, but since he'd told them that Dumbledore was dead, murdered, they'd been terrified – and they'd tip-toed around him as if he was about to explode.

So he'd throw on a clean T-shirt and gone downstairs to the kitchen and forked up the food, hardly tasting it, and watching his aunt, mulling it over, thinking, Dumbledore told them that I'd be protected while I live with my blood relatives, Voldemort can't attack me here until I turn seventeen, and I plan to be out of Privet Drive before then ... but what happens on my seventeenth birthday? Will Voldemort and his Death Eaters turn up and tear the place apart? Aunt Petunia knows more about the wizarding world than she lets on, she knows what Dementors are, she knows who Voldemort is - did she try to beat the magic out of me from fear that if I ever went to Hogwarts I'd bring Voldemort here? Voldemort must know I'm not fond of the Dursleys, but that might not stop him from killing them, and I bet Petunia knows exactly what the Dark Mark means ...

And then Petunia had screamed, and dropped her cutlery, and he'd realised that he'd said the words aloud, so he'd got up from the table and gone back up to his bedroom, thinking, what the hell am I going to do about this? If I ask the Ministry for help, that prick Scrimgeour will use it to stand over me, and what could a couple of Aurors do against Voldemort anyway, if he came himself? But he probably wouldn't bother, he'd be more likely to send Snape, he'd think it would be a nice little treat for his favourite to kill my family, since Snape isn't allowed to touch _me_ - I'm for the Dark Lord alone ... I have to see Snape again, find out if he knows if the Dursleys are in danger, and if they are, can he do anything? And he never showed me how to use the gun, and he might know who R.A.B. is - I have to see Snape again, and _soon_, no matter how painful it is for the both of us.

And there's something else that's been bothering him, bothering him ever since the night that Dumbledore died - the words that Snape had shouted at him, _No Unforgiveable Curses from you, Potter! You haven't got the nerve or the ability_. He'd thought, how am I going to kill Voldemort? Why didn't Dumbledore teach me the Unforgiveables? Not _crucio_ or _imperio_ – but I need to know how to use the Killing Curse, how can I kill Voldemort without it? And _Confronting the Faceless_ won't tell me how to use the curse, it's a Defence textbook, it hardly says anything about the _Avada Kedavra_ because there's no counter-curse, I knew _that_.

He'd remembered what Barty Crouch, junior, had said about the Killing Curse, _Avada Kedavra's a curse that needs a powerful bit of magic behind it – you could all get your wands out and point them at me and say the words, and I doubt I'd get so much as a nose-bleed_. But how do you practice it? On animals, urgh, no! And Mad-Eye didn't say anything about teaching it to me - but I have to know how to use it, I'm supposed to be Voldemort's executioner. It's Snape's job to lead Voldemort to the block, but I'm the one who has to swing the axe, and Snape will tell me, if I ask.

So he'd pulled out the enchanted parchment that Snape had sent him by Muggle post, and written on it, _I need to see you again, as soon as possible_. And then he'd thought, that looks bad, as if I'm summoning him as you'd summon a house-elf, so he'd hastily added, _I mean, as soon as convenient_.

And the next afternoon he'd Apparated to Grimmauld Place to meet Snape again, thinking, this is going to be really, really awkward, I don't know how I'm going to look Snape in the eye, it was so much easier when I hated him, but I can't hate him now, not now that I know he's Dumbledore's man - and if anyone has got less chance than me of getting through this alive, it's Severus Snape.

He'd found Snape waiting for him on the steps of Number 12 Grimmauld Place - wearing the same kind of Muggle clothes that he'd been wearing the last time that he saw him at Order Headquarters – scowling, smoking one of his stinking cigarettes, looking as sour and unpleasant as ever, and as ugly as the gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore's office. And Snape had made it easy for him, by being the self-same absolute son-of-a-bitch he'd always been at Hogwarts.

Snape had looked at him with his customary expression of loathing, the black eyes glittering malevolently through those curtains of greasy hair, and sneered, "Late to class, Potter, ten points from Gryffindor", and all his sympathy for Snape had melted away in an instant. He'd felt simmering rage as he followed Snape through the front door, thinking, I'm ready to try to be different, but even after all that's happened - even after what happened on the Astronomy Tower - the greasy git still has to be the same nasty bastard. And how dare he say _that_ to me, he isn't my teacher now, he can't take points - it's not "sir" or "professor" any more, and I bet it was him who smashed the Gryffindor hour-glass in the Entrance Hall, the foul vindictive beast ...

But then he'd realised that Snape wasn't as calm as he was trying to appear, because when Mrs Black heard the door open and started her usual cursing and raving behind the black curtains, Snape had gone berserk, whipped out his wand, used some swear words he'd only heard before on one of Dudley's American videos that Aunt Petunia didn't know about - and the portrait had come off the wall with an almighty crash that had splintered the frame and torn the black velvet curtains to shreds.

So now he's sitting across the kitchen table from Snape, who's staring determinedly at a spot exactly one foot above and six inches to the left of his head, and he's wondering how to begin - but he can't take his eyes off Snape's bare forearms resting on the tabletop. It's another hot day and Snape has rolled the sleeves of his Muggle shirt up nearly to the elbow, he can see the thin wrists and the lean forearms, all knotted sinews and blue veins ... and he remembers when Snape showed the Dark Mark to Fudge, but there's no sign of it now.

He thinks, of course Voldemort wouldn't be so stupid as to brand his Death Eaters with a mark that would easily give them away, it must only show when their master summons them - and he remembers what Snape had said to him and Mad-Eye about the Dark Mark, the last time they were in the kitchen of Order Headquarters. It's not just a tattoo, if Snape were to try to curse Voldemort, if he were to raise hand or wand against Voldemort, it would kill him, because Voldemort runs no risk of disloyalty among his followers … but he can't drag his eyes away from Snape's left arm, and before he knows what he's doing, before he can stop himself, he leans forward and touches Snape's left forearm.

He feels the magical energy surging through every particle of his body, watches the Dark Mark blooming like a bruise under his fingers, senses that he's hurting Snape - and that some horrible, sick, twisted part of him is _enjoying_ it, wants to really hurt Snape, to hurt him until he begs and grovels to his master ...

And then he _knows_, and the knowledge is sickening, nauseating, unbearable. He looks across the table and he knows that Snape knows, too, because Snape is staring at his curse scar as if he's never seen it before, and Snape is whispering, _and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal_ ...

He wrenches his hand away from Snape's arm, and he thinks, Dumbledore was _wrong_, Voldemort made a Horcrux at Goldric's Hollow the night that he gave me my scar, but not in the way that he intended, and now I know what the Horcruxes are - the diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the snake, and _me_. Dumbledore knew that I could see into Voldemort's thoughts and ambitions, he knew that I was a Parselmouth, but he didn't realise why. Dumbledore didn't realise, he didn't think of it of it for a minute because it's too awful, it's too horrible. He thought my soul was untarnished and whole, and it's _not_, I'm like Quirrell ... what did Dumbledore say about Quirrell? _Full of hatred, greed and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort_.

And then he thinks of something worse - Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, Tom Riddle draining the life out of Ginny, Tom Riddle escaping from the pages of the diary, becoming _real_ – and he remembers the Muggle movie he'd sneaked a peek at on Dudley's VCR, Dudley said it was boring, not enough explosions, and the sequel, _Aliens_, was much better – but he'd been scared witless when the hideous reptilian monster burst out of the man's chest.

And now he's vomiting up his lunch, vomiting again and again, splattering his shirt, vomiting even though there's nothing left in his stomach, vomiting until he feels dizzy, he's bent double, heaving and gasping until it's over and he can't vomit any more because no matter how much he heaves, he'll never be able to expel this filth from his body.

Then he realizes that Snape is offering him a glass of water and muttering _Scourgify_ to clean his face and clothes ... Snape is telling him to get a grip, but for once there's no malice in the silky voice.

He drinks the water, and Snape flicks his wand and says the charm to refill the glass, _Aguamenti_ ... and he remembers how he tried to get water for Dumbledore in the cave, how Dumbledore died for _nothing_, for a false Horcrux and for a senseless prophecy - because how can he kill Voldemort?

He thinks, how can I kill Voldemort, while a piece of his soul survives in me? Voldemort can kill _me_, but I can't kill him, I can't kill him if I'm a Horcrux.

He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and looks up, Snape's face is expressionless and he's lighting another one of those vile Muggle cigarettes, looking cool and unconcerned, but he knows that it's an act, Snape is as rattled as he is by the discovery that he's a Horcrux. He realises, with yet another thrill of horror, Snape is afraid of me now, and I don't blame him – after what happened when I touched him, _urgh_, that was horrible ... and why was I surprised that the Dark Mark hurts? I know Voldemort, better than anyone, and the only thing he enjoys, the only thing he really gets a kick out of, is hurting people. And he thrashes all of his followers, they must have all got a flogging after the fiasco in the Department of Mysteries last year – and why have I never thought of it before, Snape would have been punished, too, favourite or no favourite.

"Well," he says, dredging up the words from the deep well of despair inside him, "What do you think of Trelawney's stupid prophecy now? It's rubbish, isn't it - _either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_, what crap!"

"No," says Snape softly. "It's not crap. When you kill him, your soul will be torn - the fragment of the Dark Lord's soul will be torn away, he will die, the prophecy will be fulfilled, and it will be over. You will be free of him."

He looks down at his clenched hands resting on the tabletop, digests what Snape is saying, and thinks, Dumbledore said that I could turn my back on the prophecy, that I could walk away from it – but I can't, I've got to do it, and I will do it. I don't know how, but I _will_ do it. I'll never be free of Voldemort if I don't ... and Snape will never be free of him either, he'll die with that horrible brand still burned into his arm.

And then he remembers the fake locket, and wordlessly he pulls it from his pocket, opens it, and passes it to Snape. He won't have to tell Snape the whole story, Snape is smart enough to work it out for himself.

Snape turns the locket around in his hands, pulls out the fragment of parchment – stares at it for a long, long moment without speaking, and then looks at him, a terrible grin twisting his face. "Regulus Alphard Black," he says, simply. "I recognise his handwriting."

Regulus! Sirius' younger brother, he'd joined the Death Eaters and then he'd tried to leave them – and according to the extracts from Snape's Ministry file that had been printed in the _Daily Prophet_, Snape had executed Regulus on Voldemort's orders. He thinks, of course Snape would have known Regulus, they were both in Slytherin! And maybe they were friends ... did Voldemort make Snape kill his friend? As a punishment for being friendly with a traitor? But there's no time to feel sorry for Snape, the Horcruxes are too important - and how did Regulus find out about them? Did his cousin Bellatrix tell him?

"No," says Snape, reading his thoughts in his eyes. "Bella would never willingly tell anyone of the Horcruxes, she would never willingly betray the Dark Lord – but she can't resist boasting that the Dark Lord has entrusted her with his most precious secrets. She may have dropped a few hints, and Regulus was a bright kid, clearly brighter than I ever gave him credit for."

He asks, "Do you think Regulus managed to destroy the locket?"

Snape shakes his head. "No. A Horcrux is not easily destroyed. You saw what the ring did to Dumbledore's hand – and the Headmaster was an extremely powerful wizard."

He thinks, damn, we're back to square one, Regulus could have hidden Slytherin's locket anywhere ... but then he remembers the heavy locket that they'd found in the drawing room and hadn't been able to open - he hadn't looked at it too closely, but it had been made of gold and there'd been some sort of decorative mark, an S or a snake or something like that.

"We found a locket here, a gold locket - we couldn't open it - I don't know what happened to it," he says, and then he remembers how Kreacher had hoarded small objects and coins that he'd saved, magpie-like, from Sirius' purge of the house, in his smelly little den under the boiler in the cupboard off the kitchen, and he hurries on. "Kreacher might have kept it, he hated chucking stuff out and he used to collect little bits and pieces and hide them in his bed."

Snape looks keenly interested, asks where Kreacher sleeps – and he points to the dingy little door in the corner opposite the pantry. Snape stands up, strolls over to the cupboard door and taps it with his wand, the door swings open - and Voldemort steps out into the kitchen.

The shock is terrific, he's frozen, unable to move, unable even to reach for his wand – Voldemort is raising his wand, those pitiless red eyes are fixed on him but now Voldemort is turning his head, speaking to Snape ...

"Truly, Severus, you are my most loyal, my most faithful servant – and you have led me to the boy."

He remembers when he faced Voldemort in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, he remembers how Dumbledore enchanted the statute to protect him – and then he thinks, it's all over, Dumbledore isn't here to save me now, I'm going to die and Voldemort is going to win ... and I was an _idiot_ to trust Snape, he's never stopped working for Voldemort ...

But Snape is stepping in front of him, standing between him and Voldemort, Snape is telling him to Apparate, but he can't, his mind is a blank, he can't remember the three Ds - Snape is raising his wand, pushing him back with his free hand and snarling at him, "Harry - get - out - of - it!"

And then he realises that Snape can't use his wand against Voldemort, it's just a defiant gesture, Snape is defenceless, Snape is a dead man – if Voldemort will be satisfied with merely killing a traitor – and he thinks, _No!_

He looks over Snape's shoulder and raises his own wand - there's a noise like a whip-crack, and where Voldemort was standing is a Dementor; its hooded face is turned towards him, one glistening, scabbed hand is gripping its cloak ... and he laughs with relief, it's only a bloody Boggart! He waves his wand, shouts _Riddikulus_, and the Boggart explodes, bursts into a thousand wisps of smoke, and is gone.

He turns to Snape, knowing that he's grinning like a maniac – his heart is still pounding and his legs are still shaking because while his brain knows that they're out of danger, his body hasn't kept up with the news - and he expects Snape to congratulate him, but Snape is swearing at him - abusing him, "Fucking idiot Gryffindor, what the _fuck_ do you think you were doing, your fucking hero complex is going to get you _killed_, the next time I tell you to run, you'll do as you're fucking well told ... "

He's angry, he opens his mouth to protest, hell, when is anyone ever going to tell him, _well done!_ - and then he sees that Snape is trembling, Snape is very white in the face, and Snape's wand is shaking in his hand as badly as Draco's did on the Astronomy Tower. He chokes back what he was going to say, listens to the torrent of furious words, and then he realises - Snape's worst fear, his greatest nightmare, is of betraying me, and the poor devil thought that he was going to die, here, in this kitchen, trying to save me ...

He'd like to say something calming, something reassuring, but some instinct tells him that if he says anything, anything at all, he'll only make the situation worse - and then he thinks, Hagrid always makes a pot of tea when people are upset, and that's what Molly Weasley would do. After a shock like this, we need a cup of tea, and there might be some of Molly's Ever-Fresh Fruitcake in the pantry - we'll have a cup of tea and when Snape has calmed down we can look through Kreacher's smelly little den for the locket.


	2. Chapter 2: Severus Snape

**So much the better for him, so much the worse for Severus Snape**

**Chapter 2: Severus Snape**

He'd Apparated home from Grimmauld Place in an absolutely foul mood, fine, he'd managed to convince Potter that he was still Dumbledore's man, through and through - and that was a bloody miracle - but he hadn't relished having to tell Potter the whole story. His stomach had writhed like a bag of Flobberworms at the thought of the blasted boy telling anyone – but idiotic as Potter was, surely he'd keep _that_ secret, if only out of respect for the Headmaster. Surely even Potter has the brains to realise that a secret shared is a secret lost, and he, Severus Snape, was only useful while no one, absolutely _no one_, suspected where his true loyalties lay – surely Potter would realise that he would risk losing everything that Dumbledore had gambled for if he opened his mouth ... surely he wouldn't tell even Weasley or Granger ...

His temper hadn't improved during the long walk up from the river bank – because he _never_ Apparates straight to Spinner's End, even though the Anti-Apparition wards don't affect him – and he'd had time to think it over, to realise that he'd stormed out of Number 12 Grimmauld Place without showing Potter how to use the Muggle gun that he'd given him, without even asking whether the Headmaster had been able to retrieve Slytherin's locket. And he hadn't warned Potter of the danger that Ginevra Weasley was in, because the Dark Lord was keenly interested in Potter's friends - and he'd had to cough up _that_ information, because if he didn't tell the Dark Lord that Potter had a girlfriend, Draco would have.

Hell and damnation, he'd thought, I need to see Potter again, and _soon_ - before he shoots himself in the foot, or tries tampering with a Horcrux - no matter how unpleasant it is for the both of us.

But he'd shrunk so much from making contact with Potter that he hadn't touched the counterpart of the enchanted parchment that he'd sent Potter by Muggle post, and he was busy, anyway, he had a commission from the Dark Lord, a potion that the Dark Lord wanted brewed. He'd got Draco to help – best to keep the boy busy, best to keep him from brooding, and Draco had always been a half-decent potions brewer, he would have been top of the class if it hadn't been for Granger – but that hadn't been a huge success. Draco's insolence over the past year had annoyed him - had a good deal more than annoyed him - but this was worse, to see the boy who had once been his favourite student cringing away from him, because Draco was now as tremulous in his presence as Neville Longbottom.

Neville Longbottom, Merlin, how he hated that boy - nearly as much as he hated Potter - Longbottom was a dolt, an idiot, and an absolute menace in a Potions class. Potter had asked him what he would have done if the Dark Lord had chosen the Longbottom boy, and he hadn't known what to say, but in his heart of hearts he'd known that he would have done it himself if the Dark Lord had ordered him to - because in those days there was nothing that he wouldn't have done to win the Dark Lord's favour, to crawl another rung up the ladder - he would have killed a babe in arms if the Dark Lord had ordered him to do so.

And babies freak him out anyway, he didn't care for them at all, squalling fragile little lumps, and he took no chances of making any woman pregnant, witch or Muggle, he'd seen a Muggle doctor years ago and had a vasectomy. No, he'd never wanted children of his own, he'd never wanted a son to carry on his filthy Muggle father's name – but why does Harry Potter have to be the living image of James, why does James Potter, dead for fifteen years, still have the power to hurt him from beyond the grave?

Harry-bloody-Potter, how he loathed that boy, how he'd suffered through those hours of Saturday morning detentions, knowing that the boy was onto him, suspected him - and he'd known that Potter had no idea what he was doing when he cast the curse, _Sectumsempra, for enemies_. He'd known that Potter had no idea of the mess that curse could make of someone – would the boy _ever_ learn not to meddle with things he didn't understand - and that had angered him as much as if it had been a deliberate attempt to kill Draco.

Draco would have died if he hadn't been there, and if Draco had died - he would have had to either fulfil the Vow and be released from it, or die, and probably both he and Draco would both have died in that bathroom, because he didn't want to do it. He would never have done it on the Astronomy Tower, either, but he'd looked to the Headmaster for orders, and Dumbledore had said _do it_, had pleaded with him, _do it, or we both die, here, now, and maybe Harry dies too. _So he'd done it, and it hadn't been so difficult, all he'd needed to do was unleash that part of himself that had been chained for fifteen years, chained since the Dark Lord fell - all he needed to do was to unleash the demons within.

And that wretched book, the book that had been almost a diary of his student days - that book was full of demons, too – how could he have forgotten it, how could he have overlooked it? And what had possessed him to write in it, _This Book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince_, a stupid childish joke - if he'd revealed that he knew what it was, whose book it had been, it would have been all over the school in a matter of minutes, Snape is a half-blood, just one step up from a filthy Mudblood.

Every minute of those Saturday morning detentions had been torment, and the only consolation had been the knowledge that every moment Potter spent in detention was a moment that he couldn't spend with gorgeous Genevra Weasley. Potter was like his father, a gentleman, ha, so probably he wasn't shagging Ginny Weasley senseless behind the greenhouses ... probably ...

But sometimes he'd thought that he was going mad, his wand hand would twitch and a red mist would swirl around in his head, because it was getting harder and harder to control his aggression towards Potter. It hadn't been so difficult when Potter first came to Hogwarts, he was just a child, but now the boy was growing into a man - and it took all the self-control he used in the presence of the Dark Lord to keep his quill scratching over the assignments and the lesson plans when what he really wanted to do was to fight with Harry Potter, to duel with him and to kill him - as he'd never had the chance to do with James.

And those fevered fantasies of stepping over his enemy's dead body and taking the woman he wanted had to be firmly suppressed, not encouraged - sure, he had half a dozen confiscated Weasley Patented Daydream Charms in his desk drawer, but he knew better than to touch them. He was intrigued, he was curious - it was amazing magic for a pair of teenagers - but he wasn't a stupid kid any more, he knew better than to release uncontrollable hurricanes of violence and lust, and he couldn't touch Harry Potter. No, he'd never touch Potter, he's the Chosen One, the executioner appointed by Fate - and while it might be his job to lead the Dark Lord to the block, only Potter can swing the axe.

Brewing the Dark Lord's potion hadn't been enough to keep his mind off Potter, hell, he could brew potions like that in his sleep - and he'd got really worked up, he'd developed a towering rage by the end of the day. But at least Wormtail knew his moods, Wormtail knew better than to show his face around the house at times like this, knew to keep out of sight until it was time for dinner. Wormtail had cooked something up, the rat was a crap cook but whatever, it was fuel, so he'd sat at the table and forked up the food – and Draco and Wormtail hadn't said a word. Then he'd gone upstairs to his hot, stuffy bedroom with a bottle of firewhisky, a carton of cigarettes - because he was rapidly developing a two pack a day habit - and a book, and he'd hardly settled down to read when Potter had sent him a message.

He'd snatched up the parchment, and watched the words appear ... _I need to see you again, as soon as possible_ ... and he'd thought, the little prick, he's summoning me as you'd summon a house-elf, summoning me as if he was the Dark Lord himself - and he hadn't been mollified by the words that followed, _I mean, as soon as convenient_.

And so the next afternoon he'd Apparated to Grimmauld Place again, remembering the look in Potter's eyes the last time that he'd seen him – damn Potter, how dare the boy look at him with pity, just like Lily on that bloody awful day by the Lake! And why did Potter have to see _that_ memory - the memory of the day that he'd called Lily Evans a filthy little Mudblood? And afterwards, in the dormitory, behind the closed drapes of his bed and the protection of an Imperturbable Charm, he'd wept tears of misery, shame and rage, because she'd never look at him now – why would any girl ever look at the stringy, greasy, ugly, round-shouldered teenager?

He'd stood on the steps of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, sweating in the sun - because it's shaping up to be a scorcher of a summer, good thing, really, because Dementors don't like the heat, and maybe there's something in this Muggle theory of the Greenhouse effect - smoking cigarette after cigarette, and working himself up into another fury, because Potter was late. He'd thought, this had better be important – meeting like this is so fucking _dangerous_, and maybe the Dark Lord doesn't really trust me, maybe he's just letting me run on a long leash, letting me lead him to Potter - maybe he's staking me out as bait for Potter, just as you'd stake out a goat as leopard bait ...

He'd felt terribly exposed standing out in the open - even though he knew that the house was deserted, abandoned, unused, even though he'd cast a Disillusionment Charm – with his ears straining for the crack of a dozen Death Eaters Apparating into the square, because you can't Apparate silently, that crack is the sonic boom as the air molecules are shunted sideways, faster than the speed of sound, and you'd better hope they're just air molecules because it's not a pretty sight when a wizard Apparates into a solid object.

He'd started to brood over the prophecy - Dumbledore had so much faith in the boy, but why? There's no sign that Potter has _power the Dark Lord knows not_, and if he can't cast the Unforgiveable Curses, how is Potter going to kill the Dark Lord? And then he'd thought, Potter didn't try to kill _me_ the night that Dumbledore died, why didn't he even _try?_ He's like Draco, he doesn't have the nerve or the ability ... he's weak, he's useless, he'll never do it. And was the task that the Dark Lord had given to Draco his idea of a joke, his idea of a challenge to Dumbledore – to send a sixteen year old boy to do a man's job, to send a sixteen year old boy to kill the greatest wizard in the world? Because Potter is sixteen, and he's supposed to kill the Dark Lord ...

By the time that Potter arrived, his nerves had been close to breaking point, and the words had come out of his mouth without any thought at all. He'd sneered, "Late to class, Potter, ten points from Gryffindor," and had the satisfaction of seeing the boy scowl, of seeing the look of hate on his face - and as he'd walked through the front door he'd thought, as if I need Legilimency to see how much you hate me, Potter, and as if I _care_ ... I don't care if Lily's son hates me, I _don't_.

But Mrs Black had stirred and muttered behind her curtains, and that had made him even more tense, because he's been waiting for the day when she realises who he is and starts screeching about Regulus - even though Walburga Black had only ever met him once or twice, and it was a long time ago. He'd run away from Spinner's End just before the start of term in his final year at Hogwarts, and he'd needed somewhere to stay for a couple of days - and he could hardly turn up, uninvited, on Lucius' and Narcissa's doorstep, they were newly-weds - so he'd gone to Regulus' place, and camped out with him until it was time to catch the Hogwarts Express.

And when he'd heard the evil old bitch shrieking something about filthy half-bloods befouling the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, _toujours pur_, and then Regulus' name, he'd snapped. He'd lost his temper, used the crudest, coarsest obscenities he knew - and the same spell that had shattered the oak doors of the Entrance Hall of Hogwarts castle. It had smashed the Permanent Sticking Charm and brought the portrait crashing to the floor under the wreck of the black velvet curtains, and he'd thought, viciously, that shut the old hag up, I've been wanting to do that for a long time, she was such a cow to poor bloody Regulus ...

So now he's sitting across the kitchen table from Potter, staring determinedly at a spot exactly one foot above and six inches to the left of Potter's head and bracing himself for the coming ordeal, with his forearms resting on the tabletop. He's waiting for Potter to begin, to tell him why he wanted this meeting - but Potter's eyes are fixed on his bare forearms, and he wishes that he hadn't worn a Muggle shirt, wishes that he hadn't rolled the sleeves up nearly to the elbow. He remembers when he showed the Dark Mark to Fudge at Hogwarts and the look of revulsion on Fudge's face – Potter saw it that night, he knows what the Dark Mark looks like, why does he have to stare? Sweet Merlin, has he ever stared at Potter's scar? And he'd never seen a scar like that, and neither had Dumbledore ... it was no ordinary curse scar, not like the ones that he has running across his back.

And now Potter is leaning forward, reaching out his right hand ... he realises that Potter is going to _touch_ him, but before he can jerk his arm away, Potter touches his left forearm.

He watches the Dark Mark blooming like a bruise under Potter's fingers, feels the old familiar pain washing up his arm – and then he _knows_, and he's hardly conscious that he's whispering, _and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal_ ... and staring at Potter's curse-scar as if he's never seen it before.

He's barely aware that the boy has wrenched his hand away from his arm, because his brain is churning over this new information, truly he has two masters now, and he can't deny that the information frightens him. He's thinking, now that I know what Potter is, I'll be watching my step around him – he was able to destroy the diary with the Basilisk's fang, and the diary was a Horcrux, the counter-curse would have blasted Potter to fragments if he wasn't a Horcrux himself.

He remembers the Headmaster telling him that the Dark Lord had created his own worst enemy, had handed him uniquely deadly weapons - he hadn't really understood what Dumbledore meant, but now it's clear. But if Dumbledore knew that Potter was a Horcrux why didn't Dumbledore tell _him_, Snape, even if he didn't think the boy was ready to hear it?

And Potter doesn't seem ready to hear the news – Potter is vomiting up his lunch, vomiting again and again, splattering his shirt, heaving and gasping until he can't vomit any more. He thinks, I ought to relish this, James Potter's arrogant brat spewing all over the place - but it reminds him too much of Draco, retching in the bathroom at Spinner's End the night that Dumbledore died. And when he recognizes the image in the boy's eyes, the image from the Muggle movie he'd seen so many years ago, the image of the hideous reptilian monster ripping through the man's chest and bursting out of his body, he feels nauseated himself ... and he thinks, at least I only have his Mark on my arm.

He offers the boy a glass of water and mutters _Scourgify_ to clean his face and clothes, and when he tells him to get a grip, for once there's no malice in his voice.

Potter drinks the water, he flicks his wand and says the charm to refill the glass, _Aguamenti_, and then leans back in his chair, lighting a cigarette and keeping his face expressionless, he doesn't want Potter guessing how much the discovery that Potter is a Horcrux has rattled him.

Potter wipes his mouth on his sleeve and looks up at him - and he's shocked by the grief and despair in the boy's eyes.

"Well?" the boy croaks. "What do you think of Trelawney's stupid prophecy now? It's rubbish, isn't it - _either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_, what crap!"

He realises that Potter doesn't understand what this means – because if Potter is a Horcrux, there is hope, hope that when the time comes, when all the other Horcruxes have been destroyed, Potter will be able to unleash the fragment of the Dark Lord's soul that is bound to his own, turn the Dark Lord's powers against himself and destroy the Dark Lord with his own weapons.

And it won't be so hard to deal with the Horcruxes, the diary and the ring have been destroyed, with any luck the Headmaster managed to retrieve the locket, and he's got a suspicion of where to look for Helga Hufflepuff's cup – the Hogwarts Trophy Room, because if you want to hide a grain of sand, a beach is the best place, and it would have amused the Dark Lord to conceal one of his Horcruxes right under Dumbledore's nose. Of course they'll have to leave the snake until the last, the Dark Lord might get suspicious if anything happened to Nagini, and disposing of the snake will be his job, yes, it will be his job to clear the way for the Chosen One.

Potter is looking utterly miserable, and for a moment he feels a stab of pity for the poor little sod - not that he's ever going to drop his guard around the boy.

"No," he says softly. "It's not crap. When you kill him, your soul will be torn - the fragment of the Dark Lord's soul will be torn away, he will die, the prophecy will be fulfilled, and it will be over. You will be free of him."

Potter looks down at his clenched hands resting on the tabletop, digesting what he's said and then, wordlessly, Potter pulls a locket from his pocket, opens it, and passes it to him. He turns the locket around in his hands – something is wrong, this isn't Slytherin's locket, and there's nothing inside but a scrap of folded parchment wedged tightly into the place where a portrait should have been. He pulls out the fragment of parchment, reads the words ...

_To the Dark Lord_

_I know I will be dead long before you read this_

_but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret._

_I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can._

_I face death in the hope that when you meet your match,_

_you will be mortal once more._

_R.A.B._

He stares at it for a long, long moment without speaking, because he recognises the handwriting immediately – Regulus Black's, he'd seen it often enough when he'd helped Regulus out with his Potions homework.

But had Bellatrix shared the Dark Lord's most precious secrets with Regulus? Bellatrix' family had been a huge disappointment to her, her sister Andromeda and her cousin Sirius were both blood-traitors, and Narcissa, well, Narcissa is not like her sister, Narcissa has never cast an Unforgiveable Curse. Bellatrix was very close to Regulus, and she probably couldn't help boasting to him, dropping a few hints ... and when Bellatrix found out that Regulus had turned against the Dark Lord, oh, she would have wanted to kill him, and slowly, too - the crazy bitch.

And then he thinks, I've always believed that the Dark Lord ordered me to execute Regulus to punish me for being friendly with the traitor, but it wasn't my punishment – it was Bella's. The Dark Lord must have known how much she wanted to kill her traitor cousin, though not why, she would never have dared to let the Dark Lord know _that_ – and it was her punishment, to be deprived of the pleasure.

He looks at Potter, a terrible grin twisting his face. "Regulus Alphard Black," he says, simply. "I recognise his handwriting."

Potter is looking at him, he's heard the story of Regulus Black, and he catches the thought in the boy's eyes - "How did Regulus find out about the Horcruxes? Did his cousin Bellatrix tell him?"

"No," he says. "Bella would never willingly tell anyone of the Horcruxes, she would never willingly betray the Dark Lord – but she can't resist boasting that the Dark Lord has entrusted her with his most precious secrets. She may have dropped a few hints, and Regulus was a bright kid, clearly bright than I ever gave him credit for."

"Do you think Regulus managed to destroy the locket?" asks Potter.

He shakes his head. "No. A Horcrux is not easily destroyed. You saw what the ring did to Dumbledore's hand – and the Headmaster was an extremely powerful wizard."

Potter is looking excited, hopeful. "We found a locket here, a gold locket - we couldn't open it - I don't know what happened to it ... Kreacher might have kept it, he hated chucking stuff out and he used to collect little bits and pieces and hide them in his bed."

He asks where Kreacher sleeps – and Potter points to a dingy door in the corner opposite the pantry.

He stands up, strolls over to the cupboard door and taps it with his wand, the door swings open – and the Dark Lord steps out into the kitchen, his pitiless red eyes fixed on Potter ...

The shock is so great that time seems to stop - he's got plenty of time to think, _I've failed, I'm sorry, Albus, I failed again, I'm sorry_,and then to think, this is it, I'm going to die, and I won't die like a dog, on my knees, begging, like Karkaroff ...

The Dark Lord is turning his head to look at him, he's speaking, "Truly, Severus, you are my most loyal, my most faithful servant – and you have led me to the boy."

Now his body is doing the thinking, he's stepping in front of Potter, stepping between Potter and the Dark Lord, telling the boy to Apparate, but the boy doesn't seem to hear or understand, he's not moving ...

He raises his wand in a futile gesture of defiance, pushes Potter back with his free hand and snarls at him, in utter desperation, "Harry - get - out - of - it!"

Then there's a noise like a whip-crack, and where the Dark Lord was standing is a Dementor; its hooded face is turned towards Potter, one glistening, scabbed hand is gripping its cloak ... and he realises - it's not the Dark Lord, it's a Boggart! Potter is waving his wand, shouting _Riddikulus_, and the Boggart explodes, it bursts into a thousand wisps of smoke, and it's gone.

Potter turns to him, grinning like a maniac, the stupid boy is as pleased as Punch with himself, Potter is actually expecting to be _congratulated_ – but his heart is still pounding and he can't stop his wand hand from shaking because while his brain knows that they're out of danger, his body hasn't kept up with the news – and he can't stop himself from shouting at Potter, either, he can't help the torrent of fury and obscenities, "Fucking idiot Gryffindor, what the _fuck_ do you think you were doing, your fucking hero complex is going to get you _killed_, the next time I tell you to run, you'll do as you're fucking well told ... "

Eventually he subsides, slumps miserably at the kitchen table, reproaching himself for being as useless as Ronald Weasley - his fear for Harry had been so awful, so shattering, so all consuming, that his brain had melted. He couldn't think straight, he'd been paralysed, all he'd done was try to buy some time to give Harry a chance to Apparate away.

And now Harry is making _tea_, and he's too wretched to refuse it - and offering him some beastly rich sweet fruitcake, as if he could eat anything! As if he could eat anything when his nerves have just been shredded, when all he can think is - why hadn't he seen straightaway that it was only a Boggart? But for so many years his Bogart has been a werewolf - something that he never, _never_ wants Lupin to find out - he hadn't thought it would change, he'd been caught completely unprepared. And it wasn't good enough, he's going to have shape up and really lift his game if he's going to be of any real use to the Chosen One.


	3. Chapter 3: Mrs Black

**The better for him, the worse for Severus Snape**

**Chapter 3: Mrs Black**

Normally, she just dozes behind her black velvet curtains, because she never leaves her portrait, and since Kreacher went to Hogwarts there's been no one to bring her the rumours of the day. But today she's not dozing, she's wide awake, thinking, the house has been as quiet as the grave for weeks, it's been undisturbed by wizards and Muggles alike, but of course Muggles can't see the house, the filthy pullulating Muggles that swam like ants around it can't see it, my dear husband Orion made it Unplottable ... but yesterday that awful wizard came, the one with the wooden leg and the magical eye, the one who threatened to slash my portrait with a _knife_ if I so much as said a word - and he took Phineas' portrait down, turned it to face the wall so Phineas can't leave it, so he can't move around the house and talk to the rest of us. And then he came back, with the foul half-blood spawn of the Mudblood Evans - and that other man, that tall man with the greasy black hair and the black eyes ... I've seen _him_ here before, he's another member of the Order of the Phoenix, another one of Dumbledore's creatures – the Muggle-loving old fool!

She thinks, Kreacher would know why they were here and what they were doing, Kreacher would find out and he'd tell _me_, but Kreacher isn't here, he belongs, like the house and everything in it - to the filthy half-blood Evans, I refuse to call him by the name of _Potter_, that's a pure-blood name, besmirched for ever by his father's miscegenation with the Mudblood slut - and poor Kreacher must go where his master sends him. Dear faithful Kreacher, how he longs for his true mistress, how he longs for his Bellatrix, the daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, _toujours pur_. Beautiful, clever, spirited Bella - she was always my favourite amongst the girls, and Rodophus Lestrange was never good enough for her, but there were so few pure-blood wizards for her to choose from, and my Regulus was too young for her ... and they sent her to Azkaban! All lies, lies, slanders ... monstrous lies about Lord Voldemort!

Well of course amongst Lord Voldemort's supporters there must have been a few wild young men and I daresay they misbehaved a little, but someone had to do _something_. Slytherins were being badly treated everywhere, in the Ministry, the Auror Office, the Goblin Liaison Office, everywhere – Abraxas Malfoy told me a dreadful story of a young friend of his son, very talented, who was refused a position by Gringotts just because he was Slytherin! And someone had to do something about the Mudbloods and the half-bloods, wizard blood was counting for less and less everywhere ... all that fool Dumbledore's fault, of course! And why did Dumbledore have to interfere in the Grindelwald war anyway, people say that a hundred million Muggles died in that war – and a good thing, too. Muggles fighting each other, what can you expect, they're only animals, and nasty dangerous animals, too, even though they have no magic ... it was none of our business, there was no fighting here in England – so why did Dumbledore have to interfere?

Dumbledore came back a hero from the Grindelwald war, and Orion and Abraxas Malfoy couldn't prevent him from being appointed Headmaster of Hogwarts - and how I wish now that I'd sent my sons to Durmstrang, I should have taken Sirius out of Hogwarts the day that he was Sorted into Gryffindor! Not that it would have done any good, that boy was rotten to the core, rotten from the day that he was born, but sending him to that school didn't help, not with that damned Muggle-loving Gryffindor as Headmaster, and Slughorn as Head of Slytherin, that man had no proper sense of wizarding pride despite his pedigree and his abilities ...

And then she thinks, I could have forgiven everything, overlooked everything – the Sorting into Gryffindor, friendship with the blood-traitor, consorting with a werewolf - Sirius was a wild, rebellious boy, so much more talented than Regulus ... but I couldn't overlook the terrible things he said the day that he left home. Dreadful things, insulting things, insane things – he insulted the family, he insulted _me_, he insulted all right-thinking wizards!

She remembers blasting Sirius' name off the family tapestry ... Orion wasn't man enough to do it ... and then she remembers the owl that came from Hogwarts later in the year, requesting them to come up to Hogwarts "as soon as may be convenient" to discuss a disciplinary issue, a very serious matter that had nearly led to Sirius' expulsion - and the reply she'd sent to Albus Dumbledore. Oh, she'd given Dumbledore a real blast, she'd let him know that Sirius was no son of hers, he was one of Dumbledore's wretched Gryffindors, and perhaps the Headmaster might like to take it up with the Potters, since Sirius had practically moved in with them!

And then she thinks, thank Merlin I put Permanent Sticking Charms on my portrait and the family tapestry, or Sirius and his friends would have thrown them away with all the other precious heirlooms of the House of Black. His _friends!_ Mudbloods and werewolves and blood-traitors and thieves defiling my house ... and worst of all, Sirius' godson, the half-blood scum - it's shameful that Black blood flows in the creature's veins, polluted and diluted though it is. Through his father's mother the blood of the House of Black runs through the veins of the half-blood Evans, and that's how he was able to inherit under Sirius' will.

She remembers the night that Phineas Nigellus stalked through every portrait in the house, calling frantically for Sirius - and she thinks, I'm glad that he's dead, I'm glad my son died before he could further defile the house of my fathers, before he could bring a Mudblood wife into this house to take my place, before he could make the dirt-veined spawn of Muggles the mistress of the House of Black - and father a litter of mongrels, a litter of half-caste brats. I'm _glad_ Sirius died before he could shame me as his cousin Andromeda shamed my brother – it's bad enough that a wizard would soil himself with a Muggle but how could a witch let such filth touch her, how could a _witch_ let a Muggle touch her? A Muggle is an animal - less than an animal, of less worth than the Hippogriff my son brought into the house and stabled in my bedroom!

Oh, if only Regulus had lived ... he was a good son, an obedient son, he would _never_ have defied me, _never_ disappointed me. Oh, if only Regulus had lived to marry the girl I chose for him, if only he'd lived to marry Alecto Carrow ... perhaps she wasn't the prettiest or the most charming of girls, but she was pure-blood, and she would have borne pure-blood sons for Regulus, pure-blood heirs for the House of Black. Wicked, _wicked_ Sirius, to tell such awful lies about Regulus and how he died - Lord Voldemort would never have ordered Regulus to be killed, Regulus wasn't a blood-traitor, it's lies, all lies ... I won't believe a word of it. Lord Voldemort dined here a dozen times before the Ministry banned his party, and he was a remarkable wizard - intelligent, knowledgeable, charming – and so appreciative of our collection of interesting objects, I won't believe a word of the terrible things they say about him, it's all lies, they'll do anything, say anything, to stop a Slytherin becoming Minister for Magic ...

Then she hears the door open, sees the black-haired man and the loathsome half-blood through a crack in the curtains, has the vile creature come again to gloat over his inheritance? But he doesn't have the wooden-legged wizard and his nasty Muggle knife with him today, and she isn't afraid of the half-blood Evans – her portrait is powerfully protected against all form of magical attack, and no one in the Order has ever managed to even begin to budge it off the wall - so she shrieks at him, _filthy half-blood, scum, freak, abomination, spawn of Muggle filth, how dare you befoul the House of Black – if only Regulus had lived, if only my boy had lived ... _

And then there's a tremendous blast, her portrait crashes to the floor, its frame a splintered wreck - and she's so shocked and frightened that she can't even scream. She huddles silently under the wreck of the black velvet curtains for a long time – and then, just when she's thinking that it might be safe to slip out, to slip quietly upstairs and find a place to hide until the black-haired man and the boy have gone, she hears angry shouting from the kitchen, and, terrified, she creeps back under the shelter of the rags of black velvet and keeps very, very quiet.


End file.
